


Keys, cars and baseball bats

by Cards_Slash



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Cheating, M/M, Revenge, Wyatt is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: Robert just wanted to know who the other man was, or maybe he didn't.  Whatever he'd expected out of setting up a blind date with the man Wyatt was cheating on him with, it certainly had not involved drunken destruction of property.(aka, Wyatt's a bad boyfriend who's been cheating on people but they found out.)
Relationships: Doc Holliday/Bobo Del Rey | Robert Svane
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Keys, cars and baseball bats

Robert was _still_ standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to decide if his face was more recognizable to a stranger with or without a beard. He must have turned the razor on half a dozen times, half-sure that he was better off just shaving it down to the skin. Every single time he hesitated at the last second, repeating the same stupid thought:

What would Wyatt think?

That was a bastard of a question to ask a man. There wasn’t even an answer as far as Robert knew. Wyatt wasn’t the sort of man that went around telling people what he _thought_ of things. No, he was the sort of man that snuck himself into your second dresser drawer without official declarations, that added subscription channels to your TV service and started leaving his preferred cereal in your cupboards. There was cream cheese in Robert’s fridge and two-percent milk and he couldn’t even fucking eat dairy. 

Wyatt must have had a thought about Robert’s grooming choices but he’d never said them. The only difference it ever seemed to make was how he tilted his head to kiss him. Even that was so perfectly predictable that it didn’t feel like anything but the same. 

Robert had spent months of his life convincing himself that Wyatt’s quiet nothingness was _stability_ because even if he never said a word about haircuts and beards and jewelry and clothes and jobs, he _always_ came back. He was always present. He always smiled when he saw Robert and that felt like it must have _meant_ something.

It _had_ , just, as it turned out, it hadn’t meant what Robert thought it did.

\--

The primary trouble with setting up a blind date with your lover’s other-lover was that neither of you knew who you were looking for. Robert hadn’t been forthcoming when he’d sent the texts arranging the meet up at a bar one city over, and that meant one of these poor bastards listlessly moving from stool to booth to pool tables might have been waiting for Wyatt. None of them gave off the impression they were being stood up, but none of them seemed to have found anyone that they were specifically looking for either. 

Not a single one of them seemed to be like the sort of man that Wyatt would have gone looking for when Robert didn’t meet his every need. Most of them were fresh-faced as teenage boys, dressed like they’d just escaped a discount mall. Some of them were nice enough to look at if you went for a boyish looking man. 

He was looking for attributes he didn’t have, cataloguing body parts that might have been more attractive to a man who couldn’t express a single like or dislike. Maybe Wyatt had a secret thirst for thicker thighs, or a special place in his heart for skinny guys, or a fetish for pot-bellied bearded bear types. He had mentioned once he’d always wanted a tattoo and there were at least three skinny boy-men across the bar that had sleeves of the things. 

“Well.” The man introduced himself with something that couldn’t quite be qualified as a smile. It fit on his lips like one, but there was no twinkle in his eyes. He was wearing a faded t-shirt that stretched over his boxy shoulders and fit snug to his body straight down to his flat waist. There he was, one hand pulling out the chair opposite Robert like he was accepting an invitation, “I believe we are looking for one another.”

“No.” Because it could have been _any_ other man in the whole fucking _world_ but this one. He would have accepted _any_ alternative but this one. This stranger with a mustache and hat hair and perfectly-fitting jeans that didn’t even wait to be properly invited before he dropped into the chair at Robert’s table. “ _No_ ,” Robert repeated.

“Oh,” and the stranger slapped a whole bottle of whiskey on the table that he had been concealing behind his body, “unfortunately, _yes_.”

The man just _looked_ like he tasted like cigarettes and liquor, and that _somehow_ he made that combination taste like heaven itself instead of a damp ashtray. He looked like the sort of sex you had when you were half drunk, half naked, by the side of a highway laughing so hard you couldn’t see. There was absolutely nothing about the lean of his body and the presumptive way he poured Robert a glass of liquor that suggested anything but after-hours, adult-only sort of entertainment. 

Robert might as well have been a fucking Kindergarten teacher in comparison.

“No,” he said again.

The man, who still had not given his name, reached two fingers into his jeans pocket to pull out his phone. He flipped through a screen or two with an air of disappointed boredom and then turned it around to show the picture of Wyatt. Smiling, naked Wyatt. “As I said, _unfortunately_ , yes.”

It _had_ occurred to him, multiple times, up to this moment that Wyatt had been seeing someone else. It wasn’t even a _suspicion_ because he’d set up a date with the man. He’d gone through all the trouble and guilt of using Wyatt’s phone and deleting the messages and _still_ it felt like being kicked in the balls. As if nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it being _true_.

“Oh now, come on,” the man said as he pushed the half-full glass of whiskey toward him, “you have provided us with a perfect opportunity to plan our deserved vengeance upon the loathsome human being that has taken advantage of our trusting natures.”

Robert picked up the glass, “that can’t be how you talk.”

“All my life,” the stranger promised him. He raised his glass, “to Wyatt.”

It would be a cold day in hell before Robert would offer a toast to that asshole again. He lifted his glass without saying a word in acknowledgement, and drank an overflowing mouthful. The liquor burned all the way down his throat and made his voice wet and raspy when he finally asked (since it didn’t seem like he’d ever be told), “what’s your name?”

“Henry,” the man said. He was smiling over his completely empty glass, looking like nothing but alcohol-soaked trouble. “And yours?”

“Robert.”

“Well, _Robert_. I would like to suggest that we begin by comparing the particulars of our arrangements with our mutual friend.” He picked up the liquor bottle to fill Robert’s glass to where it started and refill his own. 

This was every type of a bad idea, but Robert had already wasted a year and a half on trying to stick to the good ones. So he pulled his glass back toward his body and cleared his throat to say, “well, Wyatt lives at my apartment about four days a week.”

“What _a jackass_ ,” Henry said, “he told me he was getting a divorce. He showed me her picture, a very pretty girl named Harriet or something like that. He said they were high school sweethearts and it didn’t work out.”

“Divorced?”

Henry swallowed whiskey like it was water and there shouldn’t have been anything at all exciting about that. There shouldn’t have been anything at all exciting about him in general. He was an interloper on Robert’s relationship. He had a God damn old west mustache and stubble on his face. (And very nice blue eyes.) He talked like he had recently escaped a cowboy movie, and yet there he was nodding his head. “He was telling the truth. See, like yourself, I had begun to have my doubts about the veracity of his claims. As it turns out, he _is_ married and he is _not_ in the process of a divorce.”

That was just not information that Robert was prepared to hear. There simply wasn’t a way to process the living reality of the man who Wyatt snuck off to fuck and the fact that Wyatt was _married_. That Wyatt had never even taken the time to make up so much as an excuse about it. That Robert had never _known_. 

He tipped the glass so the whiskey slid into his mouth like a little lake of fire. He let it spread through his belly and his chest so it felt _justified_ when he slapped the glass back on the table. “ _Married_ ,” he repeated. “Married. Married to a _woman_.”

“A very petite woman,” Henry added. He also added an extra full helping of whiskey into Robert’s glass. “Now, as I find myself to be the out of town delight in this relationship and you are more intimately acquainted with Wyatt’s usual whereabouts, I am willing to follow your lead.”

“My lead?” 

“Yes.”

“My lead to where?”

“I am not picky,” Henry informed him, he picked up his glass and waited for Robert to do the same. Once they were both toasting to the unknown idea, he added, “his car? His house? I am open to all manner of semi-illegal forms of vengeance.”

If Robert had been a slightly better man, he might not have brought the glass to his lips. He might have realized that this man was nothing but dangerous, and drinking was agreeing, and he might have chosen _not_ to drink. But Robert was a man with a breaking heart, and a history of _trying too hard_ , and here was a man that looked like he’d never wasted an ounce of effort in his life. 

It would have taken a saint to say no and Robert Svane was _not_ a saint no matter how hard he tried to be.

\--

“Hank,” that was not the name he’d been given. But it was the name that his sloshing mind had seized upon. The one stationary fact in the great ocean of moving things rocking back and forth between his ears. Robert was mostly liquid poured into his human form, slapping a hand against Henry’s chest with far too much force. It didn’t matter much to the man, he just laughed. “Can I call you Hank?”

“Sure thing, Bobo.”

They were waiting outside. They had been inside, where it was warmer. It hadn’t been brighter inside but the light had been different, almost _complimentary_. Bars were full of lights that made you think drinking was a good idea. The sort that fooled your tired eyes into finding true love in unlikely spots. It would have made just as much sense to get Henry out in the garish street lights and find he was an ogre but his stupidly well-made face was just as nice to look at outside as it was in.

Hank (Henry) was laughing. He had one arm around Robert’s back, holding him from stumbling off the curb (like a pal). “You were going to ask something.”

“What were you going to ask?” Robert asked. He pulled himself up to standing, or tried. His brain confused his limbs and he ended up pulling his shirt down where it had ridden up over his stomach. He looked like a loser next to Henry-sex-on-legs (or whatever his actual name might have been). A couple of hours in front of the bathroom mirror contemplating the nature of his facial hair had left him less time than usual to pick a shirt. That must have been why he was wearing a t-shirt that did _nothing_ to accentuate the pleasant parts of his body.

Good ol’Hank had taken the time to select a shirt that spread across the lean muscles of his body like butter. He’d worn jeans that were crafted to perfectly hug the contours of his ass. That was attention to detail.

“No,” Henry said, “ _I_ wasn’t asking the question, _you_ were.”

Most of Robert’s present questions involved how exactly one went about talking Henry out of his clothes. Wyatt was many things (handsome, a cheat, a liar, a dickbag) but he was not especially good at flirting. He had that whole thing about him, that thing where he was the Sheriff of a piece of shit town and he was already _tired_ of dealing with idiots. That righteousness that you avoided going to church over. That upright citizenness that almost always annoyed you but the sex was really _great_ and he always did the dishes after dinner so you overlooked that kind of thing.

“Bobo,” Henry said again. “Concentrate.”

Right. Right, he had been meaning to ask something. “Shouldn’t the ride be here? Am I paying for the ride?”

“You are providing directions,” Henry said (as if he’d said it before, but not as if he were annoyed to repeat it). “I will be providing the cash.”

“Right,” Robert said, “so, tell me _how_ did Wyatt get your clothes off?”

“They have buttons.”

Of course they did. 

\--

Whoever had suggested that cold provided sobriety had _obviously_ never gone on a mission of vengeance with Hank. Because Henry had a hat--and that was not at all relevant to the story, but Robert had taken the hat from him at some point so now _Robert_ had a hat. 

But Hank had a funny way of convincing men with skeptically raised eyebrows that he was honest-to-God not drunk. The man had helped Robert drink what had seemed like a full bottle of whiskey and he looked like he was as big around as a slim toothpick, but he still managed to touch his nose while walking a line and saying his ABCs backward.

Not that he had needed to do any of those things. But the rideshare only took them half the way, because anyone with brains knew better than to wander into Purgatory _voluntarily_. So they’d walked their way down the long stretch of road that took them past that God-awful sign that hadn’t been replaced in about fifty years.

“Shut up,” Robert said when his feet started to hurt. “What’s so great about you?”

Hank had been walking backward along the centerline of a dark road as if he did not fear death. “Nothing,” was the answer he gave. He just stood there, blending in with the darkness, waiting until Robert got close enough to get an arm around. “Well,” he confided when they were stumbling together like two semi-drunk idiots, “there is the small fact that I am _notoriously_ easy. I do not recall if our dear friend had to purchase more than a single drink before he was invited onto this ride.”

Robert shoved him. It wasn’t personal. It was just petty. He shoved him so he stumbled to the side and rolled off the road into a shallow ditch. It hadn’t rained in a week and a half or there would have been a much more satisfying splashing noise at the end of that tumble. Instead there was just Hank head-down, legs-up groaning where he landed. And Robert laughing at him. “I asked him out! I asked him out and I took him to a nice restaurant and he uses _all my shampoo_ and he never replaces it and I _still_ didn’t know he has a secret wife!”

Hank righted himself with a great deal of elbows and knees flying all over the place. His hair was full of dirt and grass and still he was laughing, “as I have said, Wyatt is an _asshole_. But I,” he motioned at his own body, “am _not_.”

“You fucked my boyfriend!”

“Yes,” Hank conceded. He still wasn’t attempting to get to his feet. No, he was absolutely content to lay in the slope of the ditch, one foot pressed against the other side to keep from sliding, both arms lifting up to fold behind his head. “But I was not made aware of this fact. Until I saw you, I had assumed I was going to meet his wife.”

“His _petite_ wife,” felt like it needed to be said. It definitely bore repeating. Wyatt wasn’t a very big man, and neither of them were either, but none of them would qualify as _petite_. “I go to the gym,” Robert added.

“I can tell.”

They took a moment. And then another. And maybe half of one more too.

“Are you going to get out of that ditch?” Robert asked.

“I am thirsty,” said the man who couldn’t _possibly_ need to drink anything else for at least a week. Whatever got him out of the ditch was fine by Robert. 

\--

They happened across an all-night diner before they happened across another bar. Hank had his hat back because there was grass in his hair, but the waitress that showed them to a booth had cleared her throat _repeatedly_ until he’d taken it off again. 

“What’d you eat?” Hank asked without looking up from the greasy plastic-covered menu. He had the look of a guy who stared at the menu like it had _options_ and then just ordered whatever the special was. 

“For breakfast?” Robert asked.

“On your _date_ with _Wyatt_ ,” Henry said.

“Steak. He picked the place.” 

Henry dropped the menu on the table between them. His eyes were so narrow they were almost closed and his mouth was bristling up with annoyance like it had been animated on paper. “ _You_ asked _him_ out?” (Yes.) “But _he_ picked the place?” (Yes.) “So it was not mutually agreed upon?”

Robert had not _considered_ that particular fact. At the time, it hadn’t felt like an imposition. It had simply felt like the sort of place you would expect a person like Wyatt to choose. If there was ever a man born to be the poster child of the Meat-and-Potatoes dinner, it was Wyatt fucking Earp. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to go.”

“Did you want to go?”

Who knew what Robert had wanted a year and a half ago. He’d wanted to have a nice meal with a good looking person, and he had. Or it felt like he had. He _must_ have. He wouldn’t have shown up for a second date if the first one hadn’t had potential. He wouldn’t still be making space of Wyatt in his life if--

Henry was still just watching him; still waiting for an answer. 

“I would have preferred somewhere else,” he said.

Henry was just nodding, like he had already known the answer. “I bet he ate like a pig.”

Robert snorted, “I don’t remember.”

“Then you cannot say with any certainty that he did not. Now,” he picked the menu up again, “what are _we_ going to eat?”

“Cake,” Robert said.

Henry flipped the menu over to the dessert side, “pie? Cake. Cake, it is.”

\--

“So you never had a real relationship with Wyatt?”

Henry was walking on the very edge of the sidewalk now, arms out like a balancing act, taking his time and letting Robert walk them wherever he wanted. The air had gone stale from the cold, and it didn’t seem to _matter_ to anyone (least of all them). “No offense to our mutual friend, but he did not strike me as the sort of man that was especially suitable to a relationship. I mean, can the man suck a cock? Yes. He is very proficient.”

“Eh,” Robert cut in, “average.” He had a foam box held against his chest by his crossed arms. His hands were tucked under his armpits while he walked. All that whiskey was wearing off and leaving him in a sad state of sobriety. 

“Now _that_ is very interesting to me,” Henry said. He had to drop back onto the actual sideway to avoid a pole. That made them close enough to rub shoulders together. “Wyatt never wanted to sleep in my bed, if you catch my meaning. Now, had I known he was already sleeping in someone’s bed, I would not have…”

“Yeah, you said.” Robert sighed. 

“There must be a place in this God forsaken town that sells liquor to enterprising gentlemen such as ourselves?”

“This late?” Robert asked.

Hank looked _offended_ by the insinuation that there was such a thing as _too late_ when it came to drinking. His arm found its way back around Robert’s back and pulled him more fully against his body. “The secret to a good defense is the correct amount of alcohol, now, we _will_ find Wyatt’s car but when we do, to fully enjoy the experience we will need _whiskey_.”

“Shorty’s is open,” Robert said.

“Ah, I do love a man named Shorty.”

\--

Among his many other interesting habits, it turned out Hank was a pool shark. There he was, slurring his way through some sort of challenge at a couple of idiots with pool cues. He did a great showing of being inadequate. His attempts to sink any of the balls had gathered him a rolling crowd of admirers. 

Only, Hank kept looking right over the top of their heads, back at where he’d left Robert at the bar. He kept smiling at him, leaning on a pool cue like he couldn’t walk backwards and sing songs while drunk off his ass. Nobody in Shorty’s knew Henry (and Robert didn’t either, but that wasn’t the point) so they were helpless against all that charm. They played right into his game, cheering him on as he lost.

In between his total, shameful defeat and the rematch, he came back over to the bar to find his whiskey had been replaced with beer. That made his nose wrinkle up in disappointment but he said, “thank you for the drink,” like he _meant_ it. 

“That’s a _lot_ of showing off you’re doing,” Robert said.

Henry licked the beer off his lips. His face was aiming for innocence, but he was so close to Robert’s body there was _nothing_ innocent about his intentions. “The higher you build them, the harder they will fall. For _instance_ ,” and his arm slid along the bar so his body was bumping into Robert’s. His voice was a confidential whisper, “Wyatt was very easily flattered, and this allowed for the occasional speedy departure on my part. Why put in more work than you have?” 

“You faked orgasms?”

“I _encouraged_ orgasms,” Henry corrected, “oh Wyatt, you are so _virile_. You are so _strong_. Oh _Wyatt_.” He didn’t say a single word like it was ridiculous; he said it like he must have said it then. Like his breath was caught in his chest and every nerve ending was its own little lightning rod. It was only his smirk that gave him away, and the wink at the end. “Now if you excuse me, I must go destroy some egos.”

That should _not_ have been nearly as attractive as it was, but Henry was wearing those pants that were shaped to his ass and he _was_ bending over a pool table. 

“Excuse me,” he said to the bartender before he could get very far away, “could we get whiskey?”

\--

“You stole their shirts,” Robert said _again_. They were outside the bar now. He’d lost his carton of cake somewhere (he could not remember where) but he had a fistful of shirts that Henry had named as his prize for winning. “Why?”

“I liked this one.” Henry must have loved it because he was standing in a puddle of streetlight, pulling his own shirt off just so he could shrug the button down on. His whiskey-drunk fingers couldn’t quite get the hang of the buttons so he just left it hanging open and threw the other shirt over his shoulder. “I advise you to always steal a man’s shirt when you have the means to do so.” 

“If you thought you were meeting his wife, why did you come?”

Henry took a while to fix his hat. No matter how many times he took it off and put it on again, he didn’t seem to be able to get it how he wanted it. “I don’t know,” he said when he gave up on the hat. It looked the same this attempt as it had looked the last attempt, so maybe he was just killing time. “I am very glad that I met you instead.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys who are fucking the same man as you.”

“I really do not,” Henry promised. 

There was no way to know if Henry was the sort of man that lied when he was drunk (or even when he was sober). Robert was willing to believe him because he _wanted_ to. He wanted to believe that rosy smile and that lingering look was meant for him. That _someone_ (anyone) would look at him just like that, with their tongue pressed into the corner of their mouth and sex dreams lighting up their eyes. 

“You’re not what I expected,” Robert said. Not even a little.

“Now that,” Henry assured him as he slid his arm back around Robert and they started walking again, “I have heard before. I am almost always unexpected.”

\--

They arrived at Wyatt's car before they realized they hadn’t brought any weapons at all. Henry, for the very first time, seemed to have stumped himself. He just stood there with his hands on his own hips, eying the vehicle with a bubbling hatred and absolutely no idea what to do next.

“Well, shit,” Hank said.

This just wasn’t the sort of thing that Robert did. He didn’t spend hours after dark drinking with a stranger, walking the distance from the city line to downtown. He didn’t eat cake after eleven, he didn’t steal men’s shirts like trophies. He didn’t get drunk with a pool shark that couldn’t stop touching him and he _definitely_ did not commit premeditated acts of vandalism as a means of revenge.

Only, he _had_ loved Wyatt. He had. He had tried so hard to be happy with him; to convince himself it was good enough to be considered _okay_. Because Wyatt had certainly never considered him extraordinary. He had certainly never lavished him with attention. He’d never done more than smile, and sometimes take him out for dinner. They had settled into a slump as soon as they’d started dating, reaching a point of mundane before they’d ever had fun.

And Robert had spent all his time convincing himself it meant _something_ that they could just sit and be in the same place. 

The sex had been _good_ , and it was better than being _alone_.

“Wyatt plays baseball in the police league,” Robert said, “they go up against the firefighters and the EMTs in all the neighboring cities.”

“That does not surprise me.”

Robert was nodding, he handed the shirts back to Henry who took them with some confusion. “Wyatt doesn’t lock his car doors.” Because who in their right mind would try to make off with the _Sheriff_ ’s car in a town this small? Who would try to annoy Wyatt? He was a legend in a small space and you just did _not_. 

He opened the front door to pop the trunk, and there was a delightful assortment of baseball gear. Everything from helmets to gloves to baseball bats. Henry stood at the end, smiling at this lovely display of weapons, like he was going to cry over the beauty of it. 

“You are a saint sent from heaven,” he said. Then he selected a bat from the many he had to choose from. He tested the weight in his hand, knocked it lightly against the side of the car like working out if it had the swing he wanted.

Robert had been dragged into long Saturdays of baseball, alternating between letting Wyatt practice pitching and batting. He knew these bats as well as anyone and he knew which one he liked to use the best.

Henry closed the trunk so it was the pair of them, drunk enough for bad ideas, and the car of a real fucking asshole between them. “Would you like to go first?” Hank asked.

“Feel free,” he said, because he must have thought that _maybe_ this just wasn’t him. Maybe he wasn’t going to go through with it. Maybe he’d brought them this far knowing the end game but the reality of holding this bat in his hand was as close to satisfying as he was going to get.

Henry had no such hang ups. He swung the bat with a clenched-teeth-frown and it struck the front passenger window with such force the glass _shattered_ on impact. It exploded in a spray of pieces, a great confusion of shushed loud snaps. The glass was thrown all over the interior of the car and pit out onto the pavement. Henry’s was _smiling_ for the first time all night as he pushed his hand through his hair. “Now _that_ does make me feel better.”

Robert set his feet and practiced his aim. The car rocked toward him because Hank was over on the other side putting dents in the doors. All the way up to that last second, just as the bat struck the glass and the reverberating impact echoed all up his arms and into his shoulders, Robert was _sure_ he wouldn’t do it. 

Oh, but the feel of that glass giving way. The beautiful spread of it flying in every direction? The _ecstatic_ ecstasy of _knowing_ Wyatt cared more about this fucking car than he ever had about Robert. 

Because he’d _loved_ it. Because he vacuumed it on Sunday mornings, and rubbed it down with cloth baby diapers. And he paid men to clean all the little crevices. He called the car _sweetheart_ like it had ears. His fingers were kisses all around the wheel when he drove. You couldn’t eat in this fucking car. You couldn’t even carry a bottle of water. Wyatt wasn’t visiting out of town dealerships, sneaking long rides in new cars and coming home making promises with his presence. 

The car screamed when it was hit, the body _bent_ where the bat struck it. The glass broke, the lights shattered, and it felt like something _brilliant_ and _necessary_ and _right_.

\--

Henry must have kissed him first, because vandalism or no, Robert just wasn’t the sort of man that would. But Henry was all hands and long body, pulling Robert forward and smashing their mouths together. 

He’d been _right_ about the taste of Henry’s mouth. It was ash and whiskey and just a little bit of salt, but it was _exactly_ like heaven. The man had traded his butter-soft-shirt for one that wouldn’t button. So Robert’s hands were pressed against his skin, feeling how all those long-lean muscles moved. 

The glass under their boots was crunchy, and the parking lot was so dim it was impossible to know where the debris ended. But Robert’s feet were walking them backwards as Hank’s greedy hands were pushing them onward. Sooner or later they had to fall over or hit something, and neither option seemed like the wrong one. 

“You’re really fucking hot,” Robert gasped when Henry’s mouth slid down to suck at his neck. 

Henry’s voice was all sweetness and charm, “ _Wyatt_ is a God damn _fool_ for not appreciating what he had.” Those words were easy to swallow when they were being chased along by the impatient spread of Hank’s finger working his shirt up. His back was pressed against something that felt like bricks and Hank’s mouth was slick on his freshly-naked skin. “Oh, look at you,” Henry mumbled to himself.

Look at him. Those were words he’d never heard. _Look at him_. 

Robert was catching up to the obvious in progress, pushing his fingers through Henry’s sweat-damp hair, feeling how slick and shiny it felt between his fingers. It was no surprise when his belt was pulled loose, and no great shock when his jeans were eased down. “I don’t really do this,” he said because he _didn’t_.

“Well, I will be certain to remedy that affliction,” didn’t sound like anything but gibberish. It didn’t need to sound like a single comprehensible thought to either of them. Henry was on his knees with his mouth on Robert’s dick, no more than nine feet from the scene of their _crime_. 

What he had said about Wyatt’s cocksucking skills had been _mostly_ petty but he was willing to stake his reputation on it being _true_ now that Henry had his mouth on him. It might not even have been a matter of skill; it might have been nothing more than the desperate beat of his heart and the _desire_ to feel anything that was wonderful. 

The wall behind him was doing all the work of keeping him upright because between the liquor and the mouth on his dick, he didn’t have enough brain cells left to coordinate any sort of effort on his part. He hadn’t even remembered they were outside until the sound of glass scraping across the pavement made him open his eyes. 

And there was _Wyatt_ , in his Sheriff shirt and his hands on his hips, looking at the corpse of his car with a frown so pronounced it warped the shape of his face. When he looked over, it wasn’t the face of a man that was _surprised_.

“ _Wyatt_ ,” Robert gasped.

“I am _not_ ,” Henry said. He had pulled back just to _complain_ but he turned his head when Robert’s hand pulled at his hair. He was still on his knees, hands on Robert’s hips, mouth pinked from effort. He stared at Wyatt for a breath and that _anger_ bristled through him. “Well, he can watch,” Henry said. 

“What?” Robert gasped.

Henry’s answer was sucking Robert’s cock back into his mouth like he’d never been interrupted. If anything, it _increased_ his efforts. That wasn’t _fair_ when he was trying to stay upright and pay attention. They were going to be arrested as soon as Wyatt finished walking over here, and Robert was trying to _care_ about that. Only nothing seemed to matter as much as how overwhelming the orgasm building in his body _felt_. He hadn’t been wound this tight in _years_. He hadn’t wanted anything like _this_ in so long it felt like some kind of special heaven. 

“Oh shit,” he gasped. His fingers were pulling Henry’s hair because they were curling into fists he couldn’t loosen up. And his hips were pushing forward, chasing after the sensation. 

Wyatt was _watching_ , and that must have been what pushed him over the edge, because that man had _never_ seen him like this. 

Henry crawled up his body with a hot pink smile, and a helpful hand rearranging Robert’s clothes so he was covered up. There would most definitely be a need for some manner of reciprocation but Henry seemed happy just to press a kiss at the corner of his mouth and turn half around to look at Wyatt. 

“You have been a very bad man, Wyatt Earp.”

Wyatt lifted one hand to motion at his car, “doesn’t look like I’m the only one, Holliday.”

Henry’s laugh was like a slap in the face. He hadn’t been half this angry the whole of the night, but standing six feet from the man who had fucked them both seemed to fill him up with some kind of vivid violence. It was glowing through his skin like sunshine. “I do not know what you are talking about. My new friend,” and his hand pressed against Robert’s chest, “and I, well we happened upon the scene of this crime in our search for a suitable place for a romantic encounter.”

“ _Romantic_.”

“I feel very romanced,” Robert said.

“Yeah,” Wyatt drawled. He kicked at the glass with his boot, “well, you should go on ahead and move this _romance_ somewhere else before I change my mind.”

\--

Henry had followed him home (because he’d been invited), but he hadn’t immediately made any assumptions about the nature of the invitation. No, he’d just asked for a glass and stood by the sink in the kitchen drinking water. “It is important to hydrate properly,” he’d said by way of explanation.

Robert had cuts on his hands from flying glass. He’d never done up his belt or buttons so the only thing holding his pants on was the zipper. He was awkward in his own space, aware of all the mismatched things in his kitchen. Thinking about all the space in his cupboard occupied by things that did not belong to him. “How’d you know it was me? At the bar?”

Hank was half-through drinking his glass of water when the question was asked, and he thought about it slowly while he finished it off. By the time he was wiping the water out of his moustache, he had settled on what he wanted to say. “You just looked like I felt.”

Well, he must have looked even worse than he thought he did. 

“Wyatt really loved that car,” Robert said.

“Well that does make me _happy_ to know because I believe I really loved that bastard,” Henry said.

Robert snorted at that, “he is _such_ a bastard.”

They were both nodding, sharing an awkward silence, filling up space with breathing and looking sideways so they weren’t looking at one another. Henry was too polite to impose and Robert was indecisive about offering.

But he’d shattered a car window and he’d gotten his dick sucked with his back pushed up against a police station, and it didn’t seem like it clearing his throat to say, “so, I was thinking we should fuck.”

Henry’s smile was so honest, and so _pleased_ it was impossible not to return. “I was _thinking_ what a fantastic cock you have to fuck with.”

Oh, well, if a man was going to say things like _that_. 

\--

Henry was a sleep octopus; a man whose arms and legs could not keep to themselves. Robert woke up smothered by the closeness of the man, with the edge of a headache (for lack of hydrating, probably) burning at the corners of his eyes. But Henry was happily sleeping against his arm, mumbling nonsense under his breath when Robert had to shake him loose. 

He retreated to the kitchen and the promise of hot coffee. 

Morning had a terrible habit of making the night before seem ugly. Robert was standing by his counter, watching coffee trickle into the pot, thinking that he was _definitely_ going to get arrested sooner or later. (He deserved it. He had committed a number of crimes.) 

Henry didn’t show up until Robert was drinking his second cup. He shuffled out of the hallway with bedhead and boxers, looking as if he had no memory of how he’d come to be where he was. His skin was hanging onto marks from the day before. “How,” Henry said, “am I supposed to have convinced you to have breakfast with me if you have removed yourself from my grasp?”

“Breakfast?”

“Have I overslept? Is it lunch?”

“No,” Robert said, “I-- You don’t have to…”

Henry opened three cabinets before he found the mugs, and there was a box of cereal right next to them that made him frown. He pulled it out of the cabinet and spun in a circle until he found a trash can and he just dropped it in without so much as a word of explanation. He poured himself a cup of steaming black coffee and sipped it with great delicacy before he worked around to an answer. “Bobo,” he said (completely _sober_ ), “of course I am not _obligated_. However, I believe that Wyatt may have done me an accidental favor. Because you are,” and he looked him over with that exact same drag of happy sexual fantasies, “ _magnificent_ and I am interested in pursuing whatever manner of relationship fits with your wants and needs at this time.”

Well.

“It’s eleven,” Robert said.

“Right,” Henry said, “lunch it is. I require a shower and then we can go.”


End file.
